The Rat Was A Man
by LeahLeeMills
Summary: Now I'm the type of person that loves to delve into the sick and twisted... Sorry, but it's true. I have found that no one really discusses what sort of long-lasting, scarring impact discovering your pet rat was a creepy man you had shoved down your shirt and lovingly fed for so long would have. So I thought I would address it... Reviews are most welcome, good or bad!
1. Cold and Distant

The Rat Was A Man

For the past two hours they had spent in the Gryffindor Common Room, sitting in absolute silence, Harry Potter had been unable to stop himself from glancing over at Ronald Weasley's back.

While Harry had positioned himself at one of the tables, absent-mindedly flicking through a copy of the Daily Prophet that had been left lying around, his red-headed friend was sat on the rug in front of the fire, legs stretched out and hands firmly planted on the carpet beside each knee.

Regardless of the crackling warmth of the flame that even those who did not sit directly in front of the fire could feel, Harry could see that Ron was shaking; not violently so, but enough for the emerald-eyed 'Chosen One' to notice.

Harry had not spoken to Ron since the young man had left the Hospital Wing that grim morning. The only exchange of words they had had so far was through Ron asking Harry to help himself up out of the board-like bed (Madam Pomfrey had warned Ron not to put too much pressure on his leg, for the bone was still mending). Other than that one instance, Ron and Harry had left each other alone in speech; however, it appeared that they were communicating by non-verbal means.

Ron's constant shaking were like silent pleas for attention and sympathy, goading Harry to look in his direction every so often, yet Harry had his own 'demons' to deal with. An escaped convict from Azkaban had suddenly become his godfather and his father's late best friend. His favourite teacher, the only one who he had honestly thought would break the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position that would either kill or erase someone's memory, had been claimed by that very curse and had turned out to be a werewolf. Unable to control himself and discern friend from foe in his hideous 'other' form had caused the parents of certain Slytherin students to complain, thus, and regretfully, Dumbledore had been forced to sack him.

Yet, as Harry mulled over these various discoveries, he found himself in an uncomfortable position; one that told him his discoveries were not as damaging as Ron's single one. A broken leg had not rendered Ron speechless, cold, distant and very much out of character, Harry knew that. It was a much darker and more scarring happening that had caused him to shake in front of a roaring fire so.

Hermione Granger had not been able to withstand being around Ron while he was acting so distant, and so she had marched off to finish off work set by her teachers specially set for her, in the peace and quiet of the dusty Library, with only the gentle shushing of books flying into their specific place overhead to wake her from her knowledge-based reveries.

She had not left Harry to deal with Ronald out of spite, but because she knew she would merely hinder the situation at hand. In fact, Harry had noted that she was being fidgety, and had been the one to whisper in her ear and grant her a swift, painless exit.

And so Harry had sat there for the rest of the evening, watching the sky outside bruise and gradually darken to descend into nightfall, while occasionally glancing in Ron's direction.

{*}

Progressively, each and every student that had sat in the Common Room with them trickled off to bed, rubbing at their tired eyes with balled up fists. Each one bid Harry good night, worriedly peeped at Ron, and then hurriedly ascended their separate stone staircase, depending on whether they were a witch or a wizard.

Harry decided that he would stay up another couple of hours, allowing Ron more time to stare broodingly into the flickering flames.

{*}

Two hours later, and after reading the same page twice, Harry had fought long and hard to keep his hazy green eyes open for long enough. In his sleep-deprived state, he found a part of himself despised Ron for keeping him up with his unsociable attitude; as if the boy had no reason to act in that manner.

Harry's chin rose out of his hand and he, as quiet as humanly possible, folded the newspaper in half and rose from his wooden chair.

He looked for Ron, but was met with a flickering orange blur; Harry Potter nudged his pair of circular-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and exhaled heavily, preparing himself for speech to the young male he had not spoken to for many hours past.

"I'm going to bed, Ron," Harry announced in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence and waited, half-expecting Ron to reply that he would be joining him in the boy's dormitory.

Instead, the shadow of Ronald Bilius Weasley, who would have declared it was high time for bed many hours ago, shrugged his shoulders as if they were a pair of heavy boulders putting pressure onto his tired bones. He continued to gaze at the fire, dull blue eyes stinging, moving shadows on his pale, freckled face heavily exaggerated by the flames.

"I'll go in a second," Ron mumbled, injecting false happiness into his monotonous voice that Harry imagined even Neville Longbottom would see past. Instead of hesitating, then deciding to join Ron by the fire and listen to him pour his heart out, Harry silently departed without uttering another word to his friend.

{*}

Ron listened intently to each foot hitting the stone step, and relived those horrific moments that had caused wounds on him that felt as fresh as if they had been inflicted on him a mere minute ago.


	2. Unwanted memories

Clawing, pawing, scratching, biting.

A human man with rotten teeth, nibbling at his toes, chewing on the soft flesh of his fingers. Greasy fingers with dirt caked under long nails groping at soft, fresh, naïve flesh. **Under shirt. In trousers. Always pawing… Oh Merlin, human hands pawing at ME.**

An hour after his best friend had gone to bed, Ronald Weasley was still sat in front of the that was slowly dying, yet his position had changed from long legs sticking straight out to tucking them up so he was hugging his knees. A dull ache seared through his left leg, but he was not fully conscious of it; the pain was a demand from his body to change position or risk injuring his leg again. He ignored it, biting down hard on his bottom lip in an attempt to stop it quivering; even with no one present, Ron was desperate to appear strong, even if he was crumbling inside. Or a ruin already…

Whenever he closed his eyes he saw it.

He saw the revelation in fragments. Burning fragments. Fragments that stung like hot sparks on the brain.

_Watching the scene unfold from the floor, the pain of a broken leg shooting down one half of his body, threatening to carry him into the realm of the unconscious. Sirius Black, yellow teeth bared, sitting on his leg, long, grimy fingernails scrabbling at the pet rat that was so desperately trying to escape Ron's clutch. Scabbers scratched and bit at every inch of Ron's freckled face and pale hands that it's sharp nails and teeth could reach._

_Lupin struggled to retrain Sirius, his old friend, shouting things Ron could not understand. "They've got a right to know everything!" he panted as Sirius violently struggled to shake the man off. "Ron's kept him as a pet!"_

_Ron felt blood trickle from a bite left on his hand by Scabbers; __th__rough parted lips he breathed shallowly, frowning at the men who appeared to speak in a language foreign to him. Talking about things he could not understand, but soon would._

Another fragment of the painful scene in the Shrieking Shack stung Ron. He visibly winced and relived it, breathing as quick as he had done then and there.

"_My God," Lupin softly murmured, glancing at the image from the newspaper article that Sirius had been given by Fudge. It depicted the grinning Weasley family standing in front of the Pyramids. As tourists, they wore articles of traditional Egyptian clothing. Fred and George wore white cloths secured to their heads by a black band, Ginny wore an Egyptian headdress and Percy, Bill, Charlie and Arthur wore scarlet fezzes. Molly, with her hand firmly clamped down on Ron's shoulder, wore her usual floral-print dress with a bag full of 'essentials' (or rather her entire suitcase). Ron stood at the front to the side, a grin stapled into his cheeks, wearing a cream-coloured Egyptian dress that, judging by the pleading look frozen in his eyes, he wanted to take off; and there, perched upon his shoulder, sat a rather ill-looking gaunt rat with patches of fur missing…. "his front paw…"_

…_And a toe missing._

Ron felt his stomach churn and flip; he dug his fingers into his knees, eyes screwed tightly shut as the unwanted memories flew back at him, haunting and taunting the poor Gryffindor who looked more like a spooked cat than a proud lion.

"_The biggest bit they found of Peter was his finger…."_

"…_Twelve years… Didn't you ever wonder why he was living so long?"_

"…_. He's been loosing weight ever since he heard Sirius was on the loose again…"_

Ron violently shook his head side to side, physically trying to rid himself of those poltergeist-like memories; however, like Peeves, they refused to leave him, and seemed to fight back with much more vivacity than before. They enjoyed seeing Ron suffer.

_A flash of blue light temporarily blinded Ron; it came from Lupin and Snape's (temporarily Sirius') wand, and hit the terrified Scabbers as he desperately scrabbled in mid-air. Ron cried out for his pet rat as it fell to the floor…. And then it happened._

_Suddenly the pain that shot through his system from his cuts and, more importantly, broken leg did not exist. Ron saw the rat he had been living with for two years gradually transform into something grotesque… something that, although it still had the mannerisms and slight appearance of a rat, was wholly human. _

_Wholly animagus._

_Time seemed to stop for Ronald Weasley. In the exact spot where his lovable Scabbers had been wriggling madly stood a watery-eyed, bucktoothed, hunchbacked creature that resembled a human with a balding dome. It's skin looked furry, it's hands permanently clawed; long fingernails with mud caked underneath; on his left hand, there was no little finger- only a stump._


	3. Hairs Upon The Pillow

The final flashback faded into darkness and Ron returned to his body, gasping as if he were coming up for air. The dull ache of a mending leg resumed as he slowly regained his basic senses; the boy had been fully enveloped in his tormenting recalls; had not realised that, gradually, his body had been focusing its senses on the memories as opposed to the 'now'.

Alongside the gentle throb of the leg came exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Like Harry had discovered hours ago, Ron felt his eyelids droop over his unfocused eyes, the warm feeling of sleep attempting to force the boy to collapse in front of the fire. Yet, each time he pictured the creaking bed he had been sleeping, undisturbed, in for three years, the warmth would evaporate and leave him, once again, lightly shivering. The warm, glowing promise of a semi-comfortable safe bed would turn into a dangerous, uninviting torture-rack.

The shard of Ron that still contained what sense he had had before the 'revelation' made him realise that he would have to go to bed some time; that it would be socially unacceptable to be found, in the morning, snoring in front of the extinguished fire by giggling first-years.

His bones creaked and audibly snapped back into place as he gently, slowly picked himself up from the floor. His legs and rear were numb, the blood flowing back into them; he shook off the pins and needles and, with each step across the Common Room and up the stone steps, being deliberately slow, was soon in the dormitory.

The boy's dormitory (consisting of Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Harry Potter and, himself, Ronald Weasley) was still in a state of disorder. The covers of Potions books lay splayed on the floor, and the pages, which had landed upon each shelf and down every crevice, looked as if they had been ripped from the hardback covers by an explosion. The boys had repacked their personal effects into their trunks after the escaped resident of Azkaban had rummaged through them, pulling things out, leaving precious items broken; Seamus Finnigan had cried out indignantly and produced broken shards of his favourite mug from Ireland; once whole and decorated with the beautiful landscape of his home country, it lay broken into hundreds of little pieces. It appeared as if the majority of the clutter still covering the room, when Ron attempted to pick his way to bed, belonged to the disorganised Neville Longbottom. Pages of notes in unintelligible scrawl still lay higgledy-piggledy across the ancient floorboards. Ron almost slipped, his healing leg painfully jarring in its socket, when he trod on a hastily-written (no doubt full of faults) plan for a potion which, if drank, would cause the person to giggle uncontrollably for an hour.

As Ron approached his bed, he glanced at the other occupied ones. Neville mumbled from under his crimson bedcovers to the left of Ron's bed in the circular tower room; Ron, through his sleep-filled daze, could have sworn that he had heard the boy mutter something about Professor Snape wearing his grandmother's clothing. Next to Neville, whose bedside table consisted of rememberalls and various cuttings from plants, lay Dean with his long arms dangling over the sides of his bed; his West Ham United blanket was hanging, untucked, over his skinny frame. Beside Dean's bedside table which was crammed with various West Ham-related items snored Seamus Finnigan, his feet up on his pillow with his head down by the end of the bed; it appeared that the young man had been so tired that, upon reaching his bed, he had not taken off his green, knitted jumper and had collapsed straight onto the 'safe haven', instantly asleep. However, someone who was not asleep (apart from Ronald) was the person lying next to Seamus in his separate, spine-stiffening bed. Harry Potter, who always slept with the curtains pulled around his bed, heard Ron shuffle towards his own.

Harry noted that each step was a half-step; his friend was hesitant, deliberately being slow so as to stretch out the time it would take for him to have to enter his bed. Harry stared through a tear in his curtains and, through the blurs, was just about able to see a crimson-coloured, gangly blur that was clearly Ron.

Ron's toes came into contact with one of the splintering wooden posts suspending his bed up off the floor with a soft thump. He woke from his anxiety and realised he was standing before the bed that had become the physical object of his trauma. The curtains had been cut into ribbons by Sirius Black, the only set to have been utterly destroyed in the room. He could recall waking, eyes coming into focus, hearing the ragged breathing from above before seeing the prisoner holding a knife, suspended above him, looking for all the world like a mangy dog.

Harry heard Ron pause, shakily exhale, and then begin to slide off his jumper and grass-stained jeans. Harry instantly turned onto his other side, allowing Ron the privacy he would clearly crave had he noticed the boy staring (not that he could see properly without his glasses). There was the rustle of pyjamas being picked up off the floor and pulled on, then a noise foreign to Harry.

Ron was sniffling; blind, Harry assumed that he was attempting to rid his nose of the dust that had accumulated, over the years, on undusted sills and shelves. However, as the sniffling continued, Harry heard another noise that pulled, nay, yanked on his heartstrings. Gentle breathy sobs left Ron's lips as he parted the tatters of curtain; itching eyes were laid upon the unmade bed, still in the state it had been left in by its occupant on the day of the series of incidents that had caused him to be so upset. Ron was clearly trying to stifle his sobs, for they sounded muffled from behind, what Harry assumed, was a palm.

Harry shifted onto his other side again, to face Ron, and looked to where the little boy was staring, shaking, unable to move. Upon the pillow there lay large patches of fur, kindly left behind by his pet-rat-cum-traitorous-human. Fur, single hairs everywhere. It made Harry feel incredibly uncomfortable as he watched Ron cry without shedding a single tear, and so a strong force that had built up within the walls of his stomach made him flip over and tightly screw his eyes shut. He attempted to drown the sounds of pain out with happy memories; going to Hogsmeade, sipping at the first Butterbeer that had warmed him inside and out….. Tasty sweet treats at Honeydukes…. Every cheerful memory that Ron had forgotten; that the boy had put in a box and shoved to the darkened back of his shattered mind.


	4. A Pleasant Dream

He woke.

Ron woke to the familiar sensation of tiny paws padding at his bare flesh. He rolled over on to his side, trying to escape the sensation.

The gentle scratching of tiny claws persisted, and Ron was forced to fully open his eyes. Groaning, daylight streaming in through the only window in the dormitory, he came face to face with Scabbers. For once, Ronald was the first one up.

Little wet nose twitched, beady, black eyes stared at its master. Its two, yellow front teeth were bared. Thin whiskers moved with each twitch. The little patchy lump quivered as it watched Ron.

A warm smile spread across his mouth and, to the slow, heavy breaths of the other residents of the dormitory, he lifted a hand, still heavy with sleep, and stroked his pet rat. "Scabbers," he uttered softly, bright blue eyes twinkling as his most faithful companion squeaked with each stroke.

Pet Scabbers. Adorable Scabbers. Loyal Scabbers.

Fidgety, but harmless.

Patchy, but alive.

Scabbers gave the impression that he loved his master; that he would never let Ronald come to harm… ever. Regardless of how small he was, he would defend him with every last rat-sized breath in his body.

And Ron would do the same; every time Hermione's bandy-legged, bushy-furred feline attempted to snaffle Scabbers, Ron had sworn to kick it up its furry behind. No one could hurt Scabbers as long as Ron was around… No one.

On the twelfth gentle stroke of the loyal rat's soft coat, he woke.


	5. A Horrific Nightmare

He woke.

Ron woke to the unfamiliar sensation of greasy hands groping at his bare flesh. He groaned in distaste, flailing onto his side, trying to escape the horrendous feeling.

Always grazing… forever grazing. Little grains of dirt left on his smooth, innocent skin.

The torment of the clawing, scratchy fingernails was unrelenting, and Ron's eyelids were torn from their lower reddened rims. Groaning through a clenched jaw, pale moonlight burning through the only window in the dormitory, he came face to face with Wormtail.

Thin, slightly bent nose oozed mucus, small black, unblinking marbles bore into the boy's own pair of widened eyes. It's two grimy, stained-yellow teeth were bared. Invisible ghost-whiskers threaded through its cheeks The potbellied man jolted with silent laughter as it continued to watch Ron.

Still, the warm smile spread across his mouth, albeit slowly, and to the slow, heavy breaths of the other comatose residents of the dormitory, as if possessed by a malevolent spirit hell-bent on giving the boy crippling emotional damage, he reached out and stroked the scabby, balding dome of the giggling human.

"Scabbers?" Ron slowly uttered, the smile still plastered, like a mask, to the pale, freckled oval of his face. Soulless sunken eyes with no soul behind them bore into Wormtail's flaky, furry skin as the most faithless half-human Animagus in existence uttered high-pitched squeals of pleasure.

Human Wormtail. Ugly Wormtail. Traitorous Wormtail.

Twitchy, and dangerous.

Balding, and in poor health.

Wormtail reeked of betrayal, and that, if he had the chance, he would fire the killing curse at the red-headed boy when his back was turned. Regardless of how rat-like he was, he would sell him to the Dark Lord with every last shallow breath in his bulky body.

But Ron would not do the same; if Hermione's cat had come in at that very moment… if Ron had been in a stable frame of mind… he would have let the bandy-legged bushy-furred feline tear Wormtail up into tiny pieces. Anyone would have been allowed to kill Wormtail… Ron would have done it himself had the puppeteer relaxed his strings and given him an ounce of free will.

On the twelth rigid stroke of the double-crossing human's scabby skull, he woke.


End file.
